Crumbling Walls by ford_of_bruinen

The clouds rolled in over the coast, wiping out starlight and moonlight as they spread across the sky. The waves thundered against the rocks, spraying salty water over the low buildings near the shorefront of Vinyamar. It was barely twilight and yet the streets were dark and quiet. Autumn had come early this year, a reminder of how Morgoth’s hold over the world still strengthened.

Yellowed leaves swirled between the houses, dancing in the brisk wind. A dull echo of hooves on the paved streets rang through the Capital of Nevrast as a small company of hooded riders entered the city and halted in the courtyard of the seaside Citadel.

Some said the king had built his stone home overlooking the sea in an attempt to catch a glimpse of the land he had left behind more than a century past; others claimed that he still hoped the sea would bring him back the wife whom he had lost on the ice.

Ecthelion, for all his close friendship with his liege, did not know his reasons. He cast a glance towards the angry sea, recalling the fury of the waters after the disaster at Alqualondë , and shivered. He would be glad to see this dreary place forsaken the town moved inland, close to the tall mountains with their snow-topped crowns and the vast moors of Tumladen. He had fallen in love with the city as it had slowly risen from stone and mortar to become a place of beauty.

The rain started falling in heavy sheets, pounding the stone and drenching the cloak he was wearing. Making a face, he slapped the horse on the rump, sending it off towards the stables where one of the stable hands would take it in.

He crossed the yard quickly, leaving his companions to find their own comfort and warmth as he headed for his liege’s study. More than fifty years under the sun had passed since he first left Nevrast and since then he had returned only rarely and never for long.  He looked forward to the warmth and comfort of a place well established and lived in, the food… and the wine.

Glorfindel let the sand trickle through his fingers, spattering gently over the wet ink with a quiet rattling noise, resembling the far louder rain that was beating against the shutters. It was on evenings like this one that he was grateful life had led him into scholarly pursuits rather than into the soldiering ranks and a place among the men that guarded the walls. Of course, on sunny days he found himself aching for the outside, the open sea and the stony beaches.

He ran a hand over his face, trying to ease the tension of spending too many hours poring over parchments with small writing, usually his own. Organisation had been sorely needed after they crossed the ice, their host splintering as families followed different lieges. The few supplies they still had were counted and shared, as fairly as possible. The world they now found themselves in was stranger and more unfamiliar than any had anticipated when they first departed from Tirion. He saw the Lords bend and almost break beneath the burden that was suddenly landed on shoulders, unfamiliar with the weight of leadership under such conditions. This was not Tirion where the rain was mild and the seasons never changed. This was Beleriand with her climate harsh and unforgiving, from the baking heats that burnt the land in the south to the endless winter in the far north. These lands killed, just as surely as the Orcs and wolves that poured from the north did.

He rubbed his neck as he rose, walking over to the window. Despite the rain and wind he opened the shutters, taking a deep breath of tangy air as it rushed into the room. The cool wind energised him. All the official rooms and the personal chambers of lords and ladies faced towards the sea here. Although many were uncomfortable with the constant view to the west, it soothed him. It reminded him of a different time. He loved the way the sea changed from calm to wild, from glassy clear to roaring against the stone harbour.

The stiffness in his neck and shoulders eased as he stood there, looking out over the sea that sundered him from mother and father, brothers… He had hesitated to leave them, but had in the end chosen to go so that his sister would have someone save the family she had married into. She was lost now but other things still kept him on the Hither Shores, even if he had the choice to return: his niece, who had blossomed into early adulthood; his brother through marriage, a close and trusted friend; and a lover he rarely saw.

He returned to his desk and picked up the quill again, reaching for another document, and slowly and neatly started to pen down a list of names of all who had been lost since the Trees died. He had first had the idea after the battles of Alqualondë: that night had seen him bent over a piece of precious parchment, writing down the names of both Noldori and Teleri, starting with the name that had brought Feanor’s madness. Finwe.  He had felt a need to capture their names, as if remembering the dead would once more wake them from the pages.  The hardest yet to write had been the name of his sister.  As the years had passed, parchment after parchment had been added to the ever-growing book of the fallen.

Ecthelion rolled his shoulders as he left Turgon’s study. It had been pleasant to see an old friend again and the heat of the fire had warmed cold bones and flesh.  Yet the meeting had been long and the midnight bell had long since chimed.

An abundance of news, both from Nevrast and Tumladen, had been shared over mulled wine and warm meat. Despite Ecthelion’s own weariness and the late hour the conversation had carried them away as,  eagerly like boys planning for their first hunt, they had started drawing plans of all that needed to be done for what was to come. His love of the new land had spread to his king and Turgon wished to leave his capital by the sea within the month.

He smiled as he recalled the purple heather of autumn, the blue mountains and the crisp snow. So different from this dull and gray land of stone and water. The fascination that Teleri and Eglath both felt for the ocean had always been alien to him, nor had he ever been able to see the beauty of the churning waters the way that others of his own kind could.

His feet took him through darkened corridors, lit only by the rare Fëanorian lamp that he carried. The pale blue sheen created a ghostly array of shadows over the grey walls. The eeriness of the light had always held his fascination as firelight never had.

Candlelight crept out under the door beside which he finally came to a halt. He smiled fondly, finding comfort in the things that remained unchanged even now. Glorfindel could always be found here, long after the rest of the citadel had found rest; even Turgon had taken to his bed by now, yet Glorfindel was still bent over his beloved lore.

He lifted a hand to knock before changing his mind, pressing the handle down. The door opened with a creak.

Glorfindel sat behind his desk, the golden hair gleaming in the warm light of fire and candles.

Ecthelion smiled at the small frown that appeared on Glorfindel’s nose as he looked up - he had never been fond of disturbances to his routine.

For a long time they looked at each other in silence.

Glorfindel reached for the small box of sand, letting the precious grains fall to the parchment. He never used other sand when writing his record, only the precious ever-dwindling supply he had once brought from Alqualondë. It was a mark of respect to that day and of remembrance of where it had all started.

"You are back," Glorfindel said finally.

"I am," Ecthelion replied.

"How long this time?"

Ecthelion smiled.  "A month, until we all depart. The city is finished and it  is beautiful. You will love the moors and mountains."

Grief clouded Glorfindel’s eyes as he nodded. "I will miss the sea."

Ecthelion crossed the floor and sat down on the edge of the desk, leaning down until his forehead rested against Glorfindel’s, his hand resting on the nape of Glorfindel’s neck. "I know."

The shutters beat against the wall, breaking the moment of intimacy before Glorfindel stood, putting aside his inks and parchments with studied carefulness and resealing the small bejewelled sandbox.

Ecthelion watched him in silence, admiring the precise gracefulness of Glorfindel’s movements.

Glorfindel remained silent as he covered the burning coals in hot ashes, dimming the fire until the room was lit by no more than the two tall candles on his desk. Wrapping his arms around himself, he returned to the window where he had stood earlier, looking out over the furious sea.

Ecthelion leaned over, softly blowing out the candles before he joined Glorfindel. The resurging familiarity of old lovers grew with every heartbeat as they stood together, looking out over the foam thrashing against the shores.

  Ecthelion shuddered and reached around, closing the shutters. "I will be glad to leave," he admitted.

Glorfindel bent his head, closing his eyes to the closed shutters. "I know," he said quietly. 

The waves thundered against the shore, spraying water and foam over the low buildings near the harbour. The autumn had arrived early this year, and soon the Capital would lie in darkness, no lights flickering through the shutters of houses or Citadel and only the wind would echo between the walls. Winter had come to Vinyamar.

The winters were deeper here than at Vinyamar, colder, but less bitter. Snow covered the mountains and moors, building thick walls around the bases of houses and towers in the white city. The pearl which held Ecthelion’s love lay perfect, cold and lifeless in the gleaming snow, drowning in its self-indulgent beauty.

Glorfindel turned away from the window, returning to his desk. In Vinyamar the seas would be grey and rough in the distance and thin blue ice would cling to the shores. Passion and serenity joined even in winter. The snow would be deep and soft and dance in the wind, contrasting with the rough stone walls of the keep. He missed the city. Closing his eyes he imagined the moss and lichen clinging to the stone, slowly withering the walls until they crumbled for the forces of wind and water and earth. A city deserted for no other reason than to create this gaudy imagery of what had been left behind.

The fire crackled in the white marble hearth, red flames licking the stone. Glorfindel stared silently at the documents in front of him, maps and essays on strategy built their own mountains on his polished desk, as did the requests for new armoury and weaponry for his men. His men. The scholarly life he had cherished had been pushed aside in a King’s wish to honour his dead Queen’s brother. Now he led a house of soldiers, to Turgon’s and Ecthelion’s pride.

The libraries in the city were being filled of books, history and stories gathered in their journeys, fanciful tales made up around the fires on the way from Araman to Beleriand and every winter since. Glorfindel ached to see them, to help writing the beautiful books, bound in leather and carefully penned, but he no longer had time to spend on his love for all things written. On a shelf in his office rested the Book of the Fallen and the sand from Alqualonde. His wish to record the names of al those who had lost their lives, and still did, had been suffocated by the isolation to which Turgon held them.

The faint daylight darkened into a premature evening as he sat, watching the paperwork he had no wish to look at. Ecthelion was spending yet another month at the Gates, guarding the city with more jealousy than he had ever shown for anything else.

Idril wrapped her coat tighter around herself as she crossed the main courtyard. Her father’s obsession with security had allowed cracks to form among the people that had followed him from the lands where they had been born, both from the shores of Nevrast and from further. Aredhel, her aunt, chafed at the isolation, separating her from Kin that she sorely missed and from the freedom she had left Tirion to find. Others, like Ecthelion, prized their isolation and confinement from the world outside.

She could not remember Araman well and her mother’s memory had faded into no more than a sense of warmth and comfort, a soft voice that could still nightmares and put a smile on her father’s face. He rarely smiled these days and the increasing arguments with his sister grew in strength and volume. On nights like this, when the winter kept them inside the city walls, their fights grew never-ending.

The raised voices grated on her nerves and vicious attacks made the air in her father’s house heavy and hard to breathe. Seeking some peace she had left them to their insults and shouting, fleeing to find cover and company in her uncle’s house. He too chafed in this voluntary imprisonment but silently, his shoulders hunching over a bit more every day. She wondered sometimes how neither her father nor Ecthelion could sense his suffering.

Finally she reached the tall doorway, crowned with the symbol of the golden flower. A small smile teased the corners of her lips, her father had suggested a white rose as the symbol of the newly formed House of Glorfindel but she had objected, pleading to let her choose the name instead and he had consented. The small golden flowers grew wild along the streams and suited her uncle far better than a white rose. Knocking on the door she waited, shivering in the icy breeze.

Ecthelion laughed as he spun, his sword meeting Egalmoth’s with a loud clang. The winter night had been lit by torches, lining the training grounds by the middle gate. The snow and ice helped to hide the hidden path to Gondolin and so the watches during the dark months were a joy of training and camaraderie. He enjoyed his time at the gates, the sense of safety that he could bring to the people of the city and he loved shaping the armies of Gondolin into a perfection that equalled that of the city itself.

Swirling, spinning, turning he moved until his sword came to rest against his opponent’s side. Bowing their heads they stepped away from the sparring, Eglamoth conceding defeat. Ecthelion was still grinning by the time he reached the wineskin that Rog held out towards him.

"How is Glorfindel adapting to his new house?" Egalmoth asked as he reached for the heavy fur he had hung over the fence.

Ecthelion smiled. "Very well, I think he will make a wonderful fighter one day, once he comes to terms with his new duties. He was not born a Lord and the idea of leading men into battle is still somewhat alien to him."

Elemmakil watched Ecthelion thoughtfully. "He almost seemed more a scholar to me than a warrior."

Shrugging Ecthelion answered. "He is as courageous as any; his attention simply needed redirected to an area where his shrewd mind could actually be of some use."

Rog snorted at him, "There is more to life that is useful than the life of a warrior."

"True," he conceded. "But if I had wanted a wife I would have courted a lady."

Egalmoth burst into laughter, raucous mirth ringing in the winter night.

The wind grew slightly stronger and Ecthelion shivered, picking up his own fur coat. At least the chill was less bitter here than by the damnable sea they had left behind. Looking out over the valley of Tumladen he smiled to himself, this was a place of perfection and if he was ever called to die for such beauty he would.

Idril held her hands out towards the fire, trying to thaw frozen fingers. Her uncle’s reception room was large and imposing with its marble statues, dark dreary looking portrait of people she could not imagine as family and the gilded friezes and the embellished ceiling. It was a formal room, suited for gentlemen in court robes and the long flowing gowns of the ladies, not, she thought, for her quiet uncle.

The door behind her opened the sound of worn slippers sliding over the marble floor made her smile.

Glorfindel crossed the room, wrapping a heavy blanket he had gathered on the way around her shoulders. "I am afraid I have no slippers your size," he said tenderly. "but I found a pair of knitted socks if you do not mind the size.."

Idril laughed as she turned around, giving him a kiss on the cheek. "I am not that frozen, uncle, but knitted socks sounds lovely."

Glorfindel smiled a bit and held out a pair of thick, grey socks. "You really should start wearing shoes at least in winter," he admonished gently.

She shook her head as she sat down on one of the uncomfortable armchairs, pulling the thick wool to cover her small white feet. "I will not wear shoes again, after wearing shoes that ate my feet raw under the crossing I will rather freeze my toes off than put on such torture instruments again." She scrunched her nose as she looked up at him. "Father and Aredhel are fighting again."

He sat down beside her. "I am sorry," he said quietly. "Not all has grown to love our seperation from the world."

Idril glanced at him and nodded. "I know that. Aredhel misses the world but so do you, but you do not have shouting matches with my father."

He smiled softly. "Not all of us has the temper of Finwe’s house," he reached out and caressed her  hair. "What I have is here now, you, your father, Ecthelion, I have no reason for wanting to be anywhere else."

Idril snorted slightly. "Father and Ecthelion are trying to change you into one of us, another Noldo with a love for fighting and security and unhealthy relationship to shiny things. This," she paused to gesture," the room, the house, the city is Ecthelion’s and father’s jewel and they seem to forget a life that is not centred around their beloved marble and mortar."

"It makes them happy," he replied simply.

"Yes," she agreed. "It does… and it makes others unhappy. I miss Vinyamar," she confessed quietly. "I find myself drawn towards the memory of the sea and I ache of longing. My fate lies there, not in this hidden mausoleum."

Glorfindel wrapped an arm around her shoulders. "I miss it as well," he confessed. "But our happiness there was at the cost of others as well. We stay for them."

"It is not fair," she said quietly.

"No," he agreed. "It is not fair, but we do it for love."

Idril curled up beside him, enjoying the silence of his halls as she looked towards the window. Outside the snow was whirling in the wind, building thicker walls around the city. They would be trapped here until the spring, the mountain pass buried under snow and ice and while they waited for spring the cracks would widen, over and over until, in a few years the society would crumble like the walls of Vinyamar.